Wake up before you go-go 80s

Okay, here's a fashion tip - The 80s are back, but they're not THAT back. If you're rocking your Me Decade fashion and you were suddenly transported back in time to - say a Duran Duran concert and no one could tell that you came from the future, then you are doing it wrong.

If you are sitting on top of a mountain of neon over-sized t-shirts, shorty running shorts, Dynasty-era bejewelled sweater dresses, jelly shoes and hot pink lipstick, just waiting for the day that it all comes back - stop. Keep key pieces. Anything well-made, in good condition, with interesting design elements that hark back to a specific era. But not the excesses of that era. For instance, for an 80s look, say yes to a bold shoulder. Say no to 2-inch shoulder pads with a puff sleeve. If you have to turn sideways to get through a door, it's time to throttle back, Maverick. And, given all that, you can wear it one pieced at a time. One.

And yes, this is coming up because I saw it this morning. The epic, head-to-toe 80s look. The hair, moussed. The eyeshadow, purple (with purple mascara - I didn't even know they still made purple mascara). The shoulders, wiiiiiiidddddeee. With leggings and pointy-toed flats. If it was a costume party, she'd a won. But no. Just headed to work. I get the feeling that this gal has just been sitting on a pile of this stuff, waving a fist in the air, "You'll see! You'll all see! It will come back! And I'll be ready!!"

Yes, honey. You're right. It did come back. But there was a catch. It's been "updated". That's how they get you. And the other thing I always say is, if you wore it as a teenager the first time it came around, you're probably too old to wear it by the time it comes back. Fashion never stops, and neither does the clock.

Elephant Feathers

I’m just going to acknowledge how many things in my life are elephant feathers. You know like the magic feather that Timothy Mouse gives Dumbo so that he believes he can fly? The feather does nothing, really. But it does let Dumbo get along with the business of flying. I’ve got feathers that logically I know aren’t really going to get me up in the air. But they let me ignore the anxiety of everyday living enough that I can get through this thing we call life.

Like my CoQ10 pill. I was kind of hit or miss on taking it. The science isn’t really all that convincing on antioxidants as a whole, or CoQ10 in particular. But it kind of sounded like a good idea, so I’d pop one every now and then. Then I read an article on a scientist who is developing an antioxidant protocol for people getting radiation from CT scans. The logic behind it is that people who are getting radiation treatments for things like breast cancer are told not to take antioxidants because they interfere with the effectiveness of the radiation. Bad when you’re tyring to kill a tumor. But, hey wait! Could be good if you’re trying to dampen radiation you don’t want. So my little anxiety ridden brain jumps a step further to “Where else might I be getting radiation from that I don’t want? Japan.”

Okay, I know that sitting in the middle of Texas, radiation contamination from Japan isn’t an immediate concern. All sorts of science dudes have assured me of this. I’m fine. Well, no, I’m not fine because it has freaked my contamination anxieties right off the charts. I know I’m not supposed to be spinning about Japan radiation. But I am. Probably the result of too many Godzilla movies in my childhood.

But then I read about the antioxidants. And now taking my little CoQ10 pill at lunch everyday makes me feel safe and happy. Like my own little feather. Is it the right kind of antioxidant? Probably not. Is it a magic pill that will prevent me from growing scales and attacking Tokyo? Also probably not. It’s a bit of magical thinking that won’t kill me. I’m fine with that.

Kiss-Kiss-No-No-Bang-Bang

There’s an article in Time this week (http://healthland.time.com/2011/03/22/the-cranky-dieter-explained-self-control-makes-you-angry/) about how dieting makes people cranky. Turns out it’s not just a sugar crash that makes people pissy when they are on a diet (and if you’ve never worked in an office where half your co-workers are on the Atkins, thank your lucky stars), it’s that you’ve told yourself no more often. Seems that exercising self-control bugs people. A lot. Kind of one of those, if it was a snake it would have bit me observations.

And I can’t stop thinking about it. Do you suppose people getting angry easily because they’re practicing self-denial explains Islamic extremism? I know it’s a jump. But go with me on this. Islam is a deeply, deeply no-no religion. They have food restrictions. They have sexual restrictions (big time). They have social restrictions. Every time they turn around there’s some rule they’re butting up against. And the more fundamentalist you get, the more hemmed in you get. Women are burkahed to death. But men get it too. If you go by the statistics on how many times the average man thinks of sex a day, and some Islamic sects say a man isn’t really even supposed to have impure thoughts, that’s telling yourself no about every minute and half. Gah. I’d be pretty pissy too. That’s not including the rest of the day – gee, I’m tired, I don’t feel like praying for the 4th time today – NO – gee, I’d like to have political self-determination instead of deferring to the ruling of a mulla – NO. Damn, that ham sandwich looks good – NO.

And not just Islam. Back during the Troubles, the Irish, as a bunch, were some hardcore Catholics. Not just regular Catholicism. Like voodoo Catholics. Lots of no-nos. Then they started throttling back with the rest of the Catholic world, and suddenly, no more car bombs. Huh. Go figure. David Koresh and Waco. And I can tell you, back in the day, there were any number of extreme fundamentalist sects in the deserts of Arizona who loved them some guns and Jesus. Timothy McVeigh came out of those wilds.

As usual, I’m no social scientist. Just a blogside philosopher. But it makes a peculiar kind of sense. Kind of puts going to hell in a completely different handbasket.

Suit up!

Would somebody mind explaining to me $390 for a bathing suit?

I’ve been a subscriber for years to Daily Candy’s newsletters. I’m not a trendy person, but I do like to stay informed on what’s going on in fashion, food, entertainment, etc. Just for giggles. Truly giggles. The prices on some of the things they consider “essentials” (as in the essential for spring, not as is air) can be a teensy bit appalling. But they sometimes venture out of the Land of Conspicuous Consumption to give a heads up on something nifty, new and not the cost of sending a kid to Yale, and I appreciate them throwing the proles a bone.

But today I’m looking at their sneak peek at bathing suit season. There’s this cute little pink number. Not too high cut in the legs. Not too low cut at the top. Righteous color. I’m thinking . . . holy catz. $390? Say what? For a bathing suit?

I mean, what is the excuse for paying $390 for a bathing suit? You’re going to the local pool where you will spend 90% of your time in water up to your chin, 9% under a cover up and 1% in transition between the water and the cover up? You’re going on a stellar vacation and want to look great in front of people you don’t know and will never see again? You want to attract a man? Sister, there’s one key to attracting a man – show up naked – and the beach is one place where it is socially acceptable to get really close to that in public without violating city ordinances. Anything you spend that is more fabric than 2 eye patches and a bandage held together with dental floss is a waste of your hard earned dough.

Admittedly, I’m a skinflint of the old order. I would be hard-pressed to pay $390 for a new kidney without haggling a little bit (can’t fault a girl for trying). And even I might pay $100 for a really spectacular bathing suit for a once in a lifetime vacation. But we’re talking really frigging spectacular. Like a bathing suit that gives me an instant boob job, tummy tuck and butt lift and makes me not look fish belly white spec-tac-u-lar.

And I do realize that anything in the $400 ballpark is probably very much a mid-range in this department. Slap a Versace logo on this suit and the price probably goes to $1,200. But come on. It’s a pretty piece of Spandex. Not the Shroud of Turin. Though, actually. That might make a really interesting one-piece. I probably would pay $390 for that.

Twit my Dad says

It was one of those conversations. My Dad asked me to explain Twitter. We were all over at T’s house having dinner. And he asked me, “So, what exactly is Twitter?” Now my Dad is a hardcore OG when it comes to tech. He worked with computers when they were the size of rooms. He bought us a TI-99 computer that we thought was really cool because we could program a picture that looked like this:

* *
-
\____/

Stone Age emoticons. And it took a s***load of programming to do it. Dad is no slouch when it comes to tech. But he just barely does Facebook. And that’s really only when I e-mail him to log-in to see new pictures of his grandkids.

So, this Twitter thing? And the more I talked the more insane I realized the whole thing sounded. I’m not a Tweeter, but I kind of get the concept. So, I tried to explain the followers, and the tweets, and the hash tags and all that it was great if you wanted to quickly share information with people about a topic or an event (#cheapgrub free tacos at Torchy’s!). And the more I talk the more he’s just shaking his head. He didn’t say it. But I could tell he was thinking, “Who cares?”

Maybe I should have explained it in a way that he, a senior citizen guy, would understand. You could have a hash tags for stuff retired men dig: #stuffOGslike coffee @Jackinthebox is da bomb. #kickinitoldschool rockin the plaid fishing hat today. #bassproshop sale on lures! #rvliving if the trailers a rockin LOL.